


the road not taken

by ironarana



Category: Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Whump, hurt comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-06-30 09:10:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19850029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironarana/pseuds/ironarana
Summary: Two words. Two words and then one, that’s all it took to send Tony's mind spiraling into a thousand scenarios, a thousand different dark and bloody futures the world could have in store for a child who was too sanguine to handle any of them.“He’s gone. He’s gone, Tony.”





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> first multichapter fic! i'm actually already done with this thing in it's entirety and it's all posted on my wattpad already so i'm just reposting over here for all the ao3 people to see. 
> 
> hope you guys enjoy!

_“I shall be telling this with a sigh_  
_Somewhere ages and ages hence:_  
_Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—_  
_I took the one less traveled by,_  
_And that has made all the difference.”_  
-the road not taken, robert frost

-

It only took two hours for everything to become absolute chaos.

Tony got there as fast as he could, driving miles over what was considered acceptable without getting pulled over, but screw acceptability when all he could hear ringing and echoing in his mind like church bells was the desperation and breathlessness in Happy’s voice over the phone.

_“It’s bad. Tony, it’s bad. It’s so bad, it’s so...oh. Oh, God, Peter.”_

Happy never, _ever_ , called Peter by name and that’s when Tony knew, that’s when the bottom dropped out and he felt dread fall like a stone into his stomach.

Tony, having retained a small piece of his sanity in his rush to leave the compound, remembers saying, “Hap, what happened with the kid? Tell me.”

Two words. Two words and then one, that’s all it took to send his mind spiraling into a thousand scenarios, a thousand different dark and bloody futures the world could have in store for a child who was too sanguine to handle any of them.

_“He’s gone. He’s gone, Tony.”_

He’d white knuckled the steering wheel the whole drive there.

By the time he runs a red light and peels around the corner, finally arriving on scene, the area has already been cordoned off. There are cop cars and an ambulance already there, flashing lights painting the street red and blue. There’s also reporters gathering along the barricade and the sight of them ignites a raging wildfire in his chest. He clenches the steering wheel and tries to glare them all away. He feels territorial and like he wants to punch them in the face because even though Peter is not here, this is none of their concern. They do not belong here and he wants them gone.

He forces himself to take a breath, knowing he can’t rush into this hotheaded, and then slips his sunglasses on and leaves the car.

Haste and nonchalance are not too words that play well together but he tries to make them anyways, hurrying towards the crowd and then edging his way around the fringes until he makes it to a police officer trying to keep people behind the barricade.

“Excuse me, Officer-” he reads the golden name plate “-Reagan but I believe my driver was involved in the accident. Harold Hogan. Should still be here.”

“Oh, yes, of course, Mr. Stark, sir,” Officer Reagan replies. “I just have to clear it with my superior first if you want to see him.”

Someone from inside the barrier shouts the officer’s last name. Tony’s gaze slips from the officer to a man several yards behind them inspected the overturned vehicle. With a hand, he beckons Tony forward and calls, “Let Mr. Stark through.”

“So sorry, sir,” Reagan says, contriteness written all across his features. “You can go through.”

“Thank you,” Tony replies and slips around the edge of the roadblock and into the scene.

The car is upside down, roof caved in. Shattered glass glitters like diamonds under the sirens and floodlights someone set up. But what truly curdles his stomach is the blood smeared along the pavement. Dark streaks, barely discernible but there nonetheless.

Peter’s blood.

The thought makes him sick to his stomach.

Suddenly wrought with cold, and the winds picking up, he begins trembling all over and curls his fingers into his fist, like he might regain control.

This was out of his hands. There was nothing he could’ve done.

He has to remind himself of that.

“Mr. Stark.”

Tony turns sharply. The man who waved him through approaches him. He’s wearing a nice suit. Detective then, not officer. Or a rank higher. He outstretches a hand.

“Sergeant Mahoney, NYPD,” the man says. “I’ll be taking point on this case.”

“Tony,” he replies and shakes his hand firmly. “You mind telling me what we got here, Sergeant?”

“Well, from what we pieced together and from what your driver told us, the front left tire was shot out, car flipped. Kid was dragged out, that’s all we know.”

“Got anything on CCTV? Eyewitnesses?”

“I’ve got officers knocking on every single door from here to Kansas and detectives working on retrieving any and all CCTV footage in the area. We got an Amber Alert sent out since Mr. Hogan told us the kid is a minor.”

“Where is he?”

Mahoney turns and points back to the ambulance. Happy is sitting there on the edge as paramedics swarm around him, working to bandage injuries on his head.

“Thanks,” Tony says to Mahoney and then walks over to the ambulance, side stepping crime scene technicians photographing evidence and collecting samples.

Happy is holding an ice pack against his wrist as a female paramedic wraps his head in bandages. There’s dried blood underneath his nose. His suit is torn and dirtied, the white shirt bloodstained but otherwise, he seems okay. No worse for wear and Tony tries to take it as victory.

“You doin’ alright?” Tony asks him.

Happy’s gaze snaps up and his eyes go wide, almost frightened. “Tony,” he gasps.

He brushes aside a nurse and stands to his feet, words falling frantically from his mouth almost faster than Tony can keep up.

“Tony. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t-I didn’t see ‘em, I didn’t see anybody, there was nobody there. I woke up and the kid was-the kid was gone and I-” he bends over at the waist, heaving for breath and Tony helps the nurse ease him back onto the ambulance edge as he continues “-oh God. Oh, God, he’s gone, Tony, he’s gone, I don’t know what happened, I don’t know where he is.”

As much as it pains him to say, because he’s also trying to stop the torrential guilt from swallowing him whole, he manages to grit out, “It...wasn’t your fault. There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

“I just-I’m sorry, Tony, I’m really sorry.”

Tony stifles a sigh, nods. “Me too.”

Happy opens his mouth to say something more but he’s cut off by someone shrieking “Tony!” from somewhere in the crowd and Tony swivels on a heel to see commotion.

A woman bursts through, past the police barricade, and she’s immediately apprehended by two police officers trying to wrestle her back. Her eyes are wide and wild against her red tearstained face, brunette hair untamed as she struggles against the officers.

May.

“Where is he?!” she screams.

“Where is Peter?!”

-

Peter feels heavy all over.

It’s like the weight is ingrained in the marrow of his bones, pressing him down against whatever it is he’s lying on. Something stiff with just enough give to be considered comfortable. Not springy enough to be his bed and not overstuffed enough to be the living room couch.

He tries to reach back into his mind for his answer and reconcile the memories with his surroundings. It’s dark everywhere and something is faintly dripping. A dank, musty odor permeates the air. Strong upon inhalation and he wrinkles his nose in disgust. So not a hospital room. The only light is from a single dim and flickering bulb overhead with a chain dangling from it.

Peter lifts his head and is about to maneuver his elbows to prop himself up and get a better look at the room when a shadow moves into his vision field. He flinches as someone - a woman - says, “Hey, hey, hey, try not to move.”

The flinching elicits hot little bursts of pain through his chest, like fireworks spasming against a night sky. Fire blooms in his middle too and for a second, he swears the sun is about to swallow him whole from the inside out.

Small, pained gasps escape him as white stars expand and contract in his vision and he lays his head back down, unable to bear the weight of it any longer.

The woman continues talking as he pants for breath, chest heaving and forehead glistening with sweat.

“You’ve sustained some serious injuries to your chest and abdomen. A few broken ribs, lacerations and there’s definitely some metal imbedded in your chest. I’ve tried to remove everything I’ve could but some of it is too deep, I couldn’t get to it. It’s not life threatening, thank God.”

With the pain fading, exhaustion has decided to creep in and he feels tired, suddenly. His breath comes heavy as curiosity begins to intermingle with the desire for sleep and ultimately, the line of questions waiting at the forefront of his mind win out against his lead painted eyelids.

“Where are we?” he asks. “Who are you? What’s going on?”

The woman - he turns his head to look at her - is in blue scrubs like May’s and she presses a latex gloved palm to her forehead in exasperation. She sighs.

“I don’t know.” She turns around and sits on a cot beside him. “I got grabbed outside my apartment on my way back from work. Had a bag shoved over my head and was thrown into the trunk of car, wrists” - she holds them up - “duct taped and tied behind my back. When they got me out and finally took the bag off, I was here.” She shifts her gaze from a distant point on the wall and looks him in the eye. “Looking at you.”

Peter wants to shrivel, uncomfortable, from the way she stares at him. Darkly. There’s no cruel intent but there’s also no semblance of pity either. She just seems...sad, almost.

“Do you remember what happened?” she asks. “How you got here?”

Peter blinks. His brows furrow together in concentration and surprisingly, he does remember.

He was in the car, with Happy. They were driving upstate as dusk began to crawl over the city because Tony didn’t fly in from Japan until later that night and there was no use in leaving Peter to prattle around the compound all day, patiently - or it would’ve been more like impatiently - awaiting Tony’s arrival.

So Happy was driving and then there was ice trickling sharp and fast down Peter’s spine, and he knew what it meant, but he didn’t get to warn Happy about what it meant before there was a bang and the front left side of the car dipped down, the tire shot out from underneath them.

There was squealing. Happy desperately trying to regain control as they swerved and then flipped side over side. Someone’s scream - maybe Peter’s - was choked off as they tumbled around in the car, a mess of limbs, seat belts useless, until they landed upside down in the dark, abandoned street.

And normally, his body could’ve take a lot. He should have been able to drag himself out of the wreckage, and Happy too, but somewhere in the chaos, he must have hit his head because all he could do was slow blink, blearily, as he saw and heard boots crunch over the shattered glass glittering across the pavement underneath the street lamps.

Then he was out like a light.

Peter tries to piece it together. “I, um, car crash,” he supplies, stiltedly. “I-I think, whoever kidnapped you, they took me too.”

“Any idea why?” the woman asks.

 _Spider-Man_ , he thinks. Holding Spider-Man hostage to make a ransom demand of someone is a chilling notion he doesn’t want to entertain. Because that means whoever took him, as Peter Parker, knows he’s Spider-Man.

But he’s not about to tell that to a woman he just met so he simply replies, “I don’t know.”

“Got a name?”

His lips part to say it - because he can tell her that at least - but something behind her head catches his attention.

It’s a camera. With a small, blinking red button. An eye through which someone unseen is watching them.

The woman follows his eye line and turns around to see it. When she turns back to him, she’s laughing. Strangely, and for a second, Peter thinks she might be crazy. Once her laughter dies down, there’s still odd remnants of a smile on her face and she says, “That’s right. Smile.”

Something dark, cold and unnerving fills Peter’s chest as it truly begins to settle down onto his sternum, the gravity of the situation.

He’s alone, with a woman who saved his life whom he’s never met before. He’s injured and in pain. He’s in a basement or a cellar or something and there’s a camera. Blinking at him. Watching him.

The woman exhales. “So, you gonna tell me your name or not?”

Peter licks his lips. They’re dry and cracked. He needs water. But he also needs a friend and, while she did cackle at the camera, she also may have saved his life and that has to count for something, right?

 _It has to,_ he decides.

“Peter,” he murmurs, hoping whoever’s watching him only has visual not audio.

“Peter,” she echoes, nodding. “Nice name.”

He cracks a lopsided grin. “Thanks. And you?”

There’s a pause. She kicks at a little rock on the ground and he hears it scatter across the cement. Her face dips down and becomes hidden by a curtain of dark brown hair.

Then she looks at him.

“Claire. Claire Temple.”

-

May’s apartment is filled to the brim with reminders: of what she has lost, and what she cannot afford to lose.

Tony has only been there once and not long enough to really soak in the smaller details. The picture on the shelf of May, Ben and a young Peter on the pier. A scrawled note on the corkboard about Peter’s upcoming dentist appointment. A messily hand painted magnet on the fridge, colored blue, red and yellow; only artwork a five year old could’ve done.

The little things like those pinch him in a small, sensitive place somewhere underneath his sternum and between his ribcage. Where a red painted vibranium shield didn’t slam into him over and over again until he was sure the bones beneath the armor would crack. No, this is a hidden berth where a kid from Queens managed to take up residence and the thought of this spot being empty, of May being utterly devastated by loss, is a notion too unfathomable to even think about.

It’s a notion that May hasn’t expressed she’s been thinking about and doesn’t have to. Tony has been able to read people since he was eight years old and she doesn’t have to say anything in order for him to know she’s mulling over the worst. Her lower lip has been worried raw and she hasn’t stopped fidgeting since Happy drove her and Tony back to her apartment. News like this wasn’t meant to be broken in front of hundreds of New York reporters.

They pause inside her kitchen. The lights swathe May in a yellow glow, highlighting the flushness of her tear stained cheeks and the redness rimming her eyes. She sniffles and exhales a shuddering breath, holding herself so tightly she might shatter into a thousand pieces.

“What happened? Where is he-have-have you found him?”

“May,” Tony begins, patiently. A counter to the franticity in her voice. He tries to steady his own racing heart as he continues, “All we know is that the car’s tires were shot, they crashed and he was dragged out.”

May is silent as her tense shoulders relax, not with relief, but with something else. Not acceptance, there’s too much of a fighter inside her, so maybe it’s realization. Of the gravity of the situation.

She turns and slowly sinks down onto the cushions of the kitchen bench. Her voice is quiet as she runs her hands over her wrists, saying, “Have they found anything yet?”

Tony leans back against the counter so he’s parallel to her. He crosses his arms and glances around the kitchen. It’s not nonchalance. Quite the opposite, in fact.

With everything, there has to be an equilibrium. A counter balance. If May is panicking, then he has to be the grounding force. If she is processing, then he has to be one step ahead, which he is, of course.

“They’re working on it. I am too.”

But equilibrium doesn’t come into play where Peter is concerned.

May loves him. It’s indisputable how much she loves him and Tony knows she couldn’t love him any more than if he was her own son.

So while Tony may miss the phone calls sometimes and send hollow suits to save the day, he cares too. He can swagger all he wants or play it cool all the live, long day, but the inexplicable truth of the matter is deep down inside, where the shield slammed down into his chest didn’t shatter the most sacred depths of his heart, Tony cares.

He cares about Peter so achingly much it’s almost frustrating the lengths and sleepless nights he would go to if it meant he could rest soundly knowing the kid is safe. And right now, though he would never admit it, it’s taking everything in him not to tear the entire city apart with his bare hands or grab it by the throat and crush it until Peter is spat back out with not a single scratch on him.

In fact, the only thing stopping him, is his own anxieties about stepping back into a suit to survey the city himself. It felt like too much like a coffin the last time around, in Siberia, the armor rattling around himself, blood splattering against the red and gold plating.

But there are other ways to gain information. Less legal, ethical ways but still.

“Boss,” says FRIDAY, from his sunglasses, “priority upload from NYPD.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a video message.”

Something icy claims Tony’s stomach. He feels nauseous and unprepared and May’s desperate yet hopeful response is near overwhelming.

“Did you find anything?”

Tony releases a small, shaky exhale, trying to ignore how his heart is pulsating in his temples. “Maybe,” he replies. “Wait here, okay?”

He expects her to maybe put up more of a fight but instead, she nods and licks her lips as he steps out into the apartment hallway.

Once the door clicks shut behind him, he braces himself against the wall, standing on the edge of the great, terrifyingly vast unknown. He has no idea what he’s about to see, if he’s about to see Peter at all. What kind of state he’ll be in, if he’ll be bloodied to hell and back or relatively unharmed.

He feels sick to his stomach. It could be anything, any number of possibilities, and his heart is in his throat now, anxiety clamped around his lungs like a vice and squeezing. He’s worried he’ll start vomiting strings of blood at whatever the video is about to show him.

And yet, he forces a deep breath into his lungs and lets them expand.

He reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket for his cell phone and sees FRIDAY has already pulled the video up.

And then, he presses play.

-

The dripping is echoic in nature, and steady.

The rhythm of water falling from somewhere unbeknownst to him is almost comforting in contrast to how his heart flutters inside his chest every time he strays a little too far into thinking about the precariousness of his current situation.

A shared situation, he reminds himself.

Claire is sitting on a cot beside him and staring at the wall with her arms crossed. She seems almost entirely unfazed by the fact that they have been kidnapped and are now being held hostage against their will for purposes unknown. Peter wants to ask if she’s been kidnapped before, because she’s not freaking out the way May or even Ned would, but it strikes him as too much of a calloused question to ask so he remains silent.

Besides, talking would only make his throat more dry and Claire has warned him about dehydration. Not only has he lost a decent amount of blood but he’s also sweated a fair bit too so he has to preserve whatever hydration he can.

But he just can’t help himself. He’s bored out of his mind and he can’t believe he’s actually complaining about being bored when his life could be hanging in the balance.

“How-how long do you think we’ve been here?” he asks. The words send vibrations through his chest and he feels tingles of heat where he assumes the metal could be.

Claire sighs, leans her head back against the concrete wall. He realizes the stupidity of his question too late - how could they tell? There’s no windows in this place - but she answers anyway. Maybe she’s just as desperate for conversation as he is, anything to ease the tension in the air.

“I don’t know,” she replies. She shrugs. “Less than a day I guess.”

It’s no sooner than her lips have closed when there’s a disruptive clanking sound coming from outside.

Peter snaps his head towards the heavy metal door and instantly, he’s dizzied. The room sways and blurs at the edges and all at once, he wants to throw up. Bile in his throat, he closes his eyes, trying to will the nausea and lightheadedness to subside when he hears a loud creaking, which just worsens everything.

He opens his eyes to see the door being swung inward. Through the doorway comes four armed guards carrying assault rifles and a sharply dressed man in a business suit. Peter nicknames him Wolf right away because he looks like he could be a banker and although he’s never seen The Wolf of Wall Street, it’s a movie about banking.

He thinks.

Wolf has his arms behind his back as he strolls in to survey them. His narrow eyes flick to Claire, who is standing now and tense all over, fists balled at her sides.

Then he levels his gaze at Peter.

Peter wants to shrink away but his stomach hasn’t settled yet and there are these small, ragged breaths escaping his lips. Wolf tilts his head in curiosity, like Peter is a puzzle he’s trying to solve, and then he slowly approaches like the predator Peter named him after. The distance closes between them.

The guards follow him and aim their guns, two at Claire, two at him. Peter presses himself into the cot. His heart is beating in his throat right now as Wolf smiles.

“What is your name, child?” he asks, kindly.

Peter swallows. He feels paralyzed. Everything is happening around him and he can’t act. He’s just a spectator who is choking on fear and can’t even breathe. Where has his bravery gone?

He looks to Claire with wide eyes and she gives him a minute shake of her head: don’t tell them.

Wolf steps closer, his shoes clicking against the cement and bends over him. He grabs Peter by the chin and forces him to look straight into his brown eyes tinted with rage.

“I said,” he grits out, “what’s your name?”

Peter’s breathing grows faster, more frantic, as his skin crawls and Claire yells, “Hey! Leave him alone.”

Wolf releases Peter’s jaw harshly and shoves his head back into the cot. The world is sent swaying into blurriness again but he’s able to see hazy Claire be backhanded by Wolf. She falls down and out of Peter’s eye line.

“Hey!” he shouts and props himself up on his elbows, ready to fight, but the motion brings the pain back.

Blistering, unquenchable agony rips through him. He lets out a cry then bites it back as raw heat blazes over his skin. It feels like he’s being raked over coals as he arches his back, exacerbating the anguish.

“Peter, you need to lay back down,” says Claire, from somewhere beyond the flames.

But it doesn’t matter. All he can see is the sun. It’s golden and shining, like May’s smile, and he feels her then, her palm cupping the side of his face.

“Lie down,” Claire repeats, gentle, and she cradles his head, one hand on his cheek, and helps ease him back down onto the cot.

The pain is still a lingering, pulsing tormentor as he relaxes down into the cot, too weakened to care about the gunmen surrounding him and seeing him vulnerable when he had been trying to be brave.

Maybe brave, he thinks, is just another word for afraid.

Small, wet pants fall from his lips as his eyes begin to flutter closed, the pain subsiding. He hears voices behind the blood beating in his ears and his temples. They sound tense and argumentative and he would be scared except the fear is too far away from him to reach, caged somewhere behind his rattled rib cage and torn up chest.

Damp curls cling to his forehead with sweat. Someone brushes them aside and presses their hand against his temples. They say something like, “He’s burning up, he needs ice.”

He’s flying too close to the sun. He’s too far out of it to tell who is talking to who or what is happening if anything is happening at all and they’re right: he is burning up from the inside out.

If this is what Hell feels like, then he feels bad for every sinner who ever got sent there.

His breathing begins to even out as the pain ebbs to a dull hurt. He’s exhausted and he just want to go home to his own bed in his own room with May there and not a woman he just met, not guards who have guns trained on him and not Wolf who would hurt him just for learning his name.

Did they find out? Claire didn’t want him to tell and he doesn’t think he did, but he hears Wolf say, “Go on Peter. Say hi to Mr. Stark” so he must’ve found out somehow.

Mr. Stark.

He turns his head a little and pries open his half lidded eyes, hoping to see Tony there but he’s met with a harsh, fluorescent light flooding his retinas and a cell phone being shoved into his face.

Video. They’re sending a video. Or a picture.

Either way, he says what he’d want to say if they are filming a video.

“Mis’er Stark,” he croaks, weakly. He swallows and smacks his lips. They’re wet and there’s an iron taste in his mouth he didn’t realize was there. “‘M okay,” he murmurs. “‘M fine.”

His head lulls to the side because he can’t support the weight any more and the flashlight is too bright.

There’s some more talking. He can barely manage to keep his eyes open. Unconsciousness is right there, the void on the edges of his vision, and he’s prepared to fall.

Claire crouches down into his eye line. Her eyes are sorry and her lip is busted.

“Your lip…” he whispers.

“It’s okay,” she replies, softly. “Don’t worry about me, I’ve been through worse.”

He doesn’t want to think about worse. She’s too pretty and too much like May for Peter to think about her going through worse.

She reaches a hand to his cheek and cups it, her thumb running circles over the apple. He sighs and closes his eyes, nestling into the cot. If he imagines really hard, he can pretend he’s home with May and she’s tucking him into bed like she did when he was eight and the monsters weren’t so scary and the world wasn’t quite so dark.

“‘M sorry,” he breathes.

From somewhere, Claire admonishes gently, “No, don’t...don’t do that, alright?”

He doesn’t get to reply because the heaviness, warm, is creeping over his body now and settling in. The void reaches out from the depths of his mind, claiming every last inch of consciousness and shrouding it in darkness.

The last thing he remembers hearing is Wolf saying “You, Peter, are about to make me a very happy man” but Peter doesn’t care because he’s falling and falling and finally, sleep embraces him with open arms.

-

_“Go on Peter. Say ‘hi’ to Mr. Stark.”_

The voice sounds distorted and distinctly male as FRIDAY feeds him the audio through his sunglasses. That’s all Tony can process before the camera shifts from concrete to a figure lying prone and vulnerable on a cot. There’s white bandages wrapped around his chest, slightly tainted with blood, and his skin is shining with sweat, the rest of his body bare from the waist up. He turns his head slowly. As his eyes connect with the camera, Tony’s heart stops. Time slows to a halt and suddenly, the only thing that matters in the entire universe is the kid.

Peter.

Alive.

Lethargic, injured, but alive.

 _“Mis’er Stark,”_ he murmurs, voice rusted. _“‘M okay. ‘M fine.”_

An unsteady gasp escapes Tony. His heart stutters at Peter, clearly in pain, but still doing his best to reassure his loved ones he’s alright. There’s a cruel irony hidden in there somewhere, Tony thinks.

The camera angle changes downwards to the concrete. There’s shuffling off camera. _“If you want Peter to live,”_ says the same warbled voice from earlier. _“You’re gonna do something for me.”_

There’s a slight relief in bargaining and a reprieve to be found from the anxiety clenching his gut. Everything loosens and he manages to edge out, “FRIDAY.”

“Source encrypted, I’m working on the voice modulation,” she replies.

 _“You’re going to meet me in the courtyard of the Esther Lynsdale Housing Project in Morningside Heights in two hours,”_ the voice continues, _“alone. And if I even see so much as a single star spangled super hero or Norse god or iron suit, I promise you that kid will be dead before you can even blink.”_

The audio cuts out and the feed alters then. Tony sees a man with frown lines around the corners of his downturned mouth and his eyes are stained with rage, eyebrows drawn fiercely together.

It takes Tony a moment before he realizes the man is his own reflection.

He shudders and bends over, bracing his hands on his knees. He’s distinctly aware of how his heart is pounding too hard against his sternum and how his breathing is on an incline.

He can afford lots of things but what he can’t afford right now is a panic attack.

Tony forces himself to control his breathing and focus on Peter. He’s still alive and he needs him, he needs Tony to have it together so he can save the day. Peter has always trusted him with that. And despite assurances to the contrary, the kid is not okay and not fine and he needs a hero.

Tony needs to be a hero right now.

He straightens his posture and flattens himself against the wall, thoughts drifting to the woman on the other side, who is worried sick over the fate of her nephew.

Selfishly, he doesn’t want to show her the video. He wants to spare her the agony of seeing her nephew like that: lethargic, wounded, barely speaking. If...God forbid it, if Peter...if he sees his end tonight, then Tony wouldn’t want May to remember him like that. He wouldn’t it to be the last image she sees day and night, painted on the back of her eyelids, dreams stained with blood.

A hesitant, staccato clicking on the hallway tile draws his attention.

Tony turns his head to see a woman at the end of the hall. Blonde with a fair complexion. A black coat layered over a deep maroon dress stopping just above her knees. A hand clutches the strap of her purse she has shouldered.

“Mr. Stark?” she asks.

The very last thing he wants is social interaction. He’s already on a hair trigger and he doesn’t want to blow up at this random woman over something that wasn’t her fault.

He tries to be nice anyways, pushes his sunglasses further up his nose.

“Yeah, hi,” he replies. “Sorry, am I in your way something?”

The woman laughs lightly and waves her hand. “Oh, no, I-I don’t live here. I was um-” she hesitates before exhaling - “truthfully, I was looking for you.”

Well, that’s not suspicious at all.

The atmosphere changes rapidly from airy to tense, the distance between them suddenly wary filled.

“I saw you leave the accident site,” she continues tentatively as she begins to approach him. “You know, they’re calling it a crime scene now, right?”

“What’s it to you?” Tony snaps and feels immediately guilty when he sees her bite her lip in nervousness and cast her eyes down to the floor. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry.”

God, he needs a drink right now.

He hears her shuddering exhale before she goes on. “I know they took a child. It’s been going on for weeks. Random...maybe until today.”

Well...this is new information.

Tony lifts his head out of his hand and takes her in, really takes her in.

Her blonde hair falls in loose curls over her shoulder. Her nails are manicured, not lacquered and he knows the difference now ever since Pepper told him there actually was a difference. Her eyes are blue. There’s something like a muted anger hidden behind the pale eye color. The grip on her purse is looser.

“What did you say your name was again?” Tony asks.

The woman licks her lips. “Karen Page. I’m a reporter, I’m work with The Daily Bulletin.”

“Oh God,” Tony mutters under his breath, the instant distrust thrumming in his chest as he begins to turn away because of course, of course. The press followed him from the accident site - _wait, no,_ crime scene _is what they’re calling it now_ \- somehow managed to get past Happy, who he left waiting in the car downstairs, and now, they want a statement.

Of course.

He doesn’t need more headaches.

The disdain must show on his face because suddenly, she’s rambling so quick he almost can’t keep up.

“Okay, look, I know how it sounds. I know you’re probably thinking I’m just some reporter who wants fodder for her page seven news story but I have been following this case for weeks and there’s always a pattern. They shoot out the tires on the cars and they drag the kids out. Three teenagers have died because of them and I don’t want whoever was taken tonight to be the last.”

“Peter.”

The word is so stunning Tony can’t even believe he let it slip from his mouth.

He looks from the ground to Karen. Her chest is heaving for air after her rant, her fair complexion now flushed with wrath. There’s a fierceness in her eyes Tony can’t help but admire and respect. She’s a spitfire.

He thinks Pepper would like her.

Her eyes, determined, soften into a curiosity as she blinks, adjusting.

“His name is Peter,” Tony murmurs.

Karen nods. “I’m sorry,” she says because really, what else is there to say? “Do you know him?”

Honestly, not all that well. He knows Peter likes old movies, he played in band and then promptly quit, he had an uncle who was a police officer and an aunt who is a pediatric nurse at Sacred Saints. He likes churros. He loves being Spider-Man. He’s impulsive but well meaning. Stubborn but good hearted.

But he doesn’t know him like May does. Doesn’t know his favorite foods, his favorite movies, whether he prefers the Mets or Yankees or his favorite restaurants. He’s never there when Peter needs him the most. Whether it’s nearly drowning in the Hudson or crashing a plane on a beach. It’s always just an empty suit to save the day or a lecture after the fact.

“No,” he replies flatly.

He doesn’t know Peter well at all.

“But I care about him,” Tony adds because this, this is true.

_And I’d do anything to get him back._

“Well, I think…” Karen begins. She licks her lips. “I think you can’t care for someone without knowing them at least a little bit. And... in my experience, sometimes it’s just seeing a little piece of yourself inside of them. And then you don’t feel so alone any more.”

Tony doesn’t chew on it for long before Karen clears her throat.

“Anyways, I’m sorry I followed you. I just wanted to tell you what I knew.” She glances over her shoulder, down the vacant hallway, and then steps a bit closer, leaning forward conspiratorially. Voice low, she adds, “And there’s someone else who knows too. He’s been tracking leads for weeks but he hasn’t gotten very far yet. I can get you in touch with him, maybe you two can work together on this.”

“What’s his name?”

“I can’t tell you that. But what I can say is that sometimes, when you need a guardian angel, what you really need is a devil.”

-

There was a time, once, when Peter fell sick and didn’t tell Tony because he wasn’t going to let a little cold stop him from lab time with his mentor so he went upstate anyways, hiding his sniffles from Happy, who would’ve thrown him out of the car if he knew.

Tony found out, of course, when Peter couldn’t restrain himself from falling into a coughing fit as he reverse engineered an Iron Man gauntlet with trembling fingers. That’s when Tony noticed his flushed face and cracked lips, hands slipping everywhere, and called it.

“Alright, that’s enough. Jig’s up, cowboy, I know you’re sick and don’t even try to do that thing you do where you try and deny it because that’d be a bad idea and you’re a terrible liar.”

Peter wracked his brain for a good comeback as he stuttered with a dry mouth, “I-I just-”

Tony shook his head and wagged his finger. “Mm-mm, no excuses. Come on. Let’s get you some R&R upstairs.”

Peter wanted to be reluctant but sleep sounded like paradise right when Tony suggested it so instead, he listened and followed Tony upstairs to the living quarters.

In Tony’s quarters - much more spacious than the other bedrooms - , Peter slipped his shoes off and then laid down on the couch, finding a blanket slung over the back of the sofa and covering himself with it, tucking the edges down around his shoulders. He could hear Tony rifling around in the kitchen cabinets behind him as his eyelids began to droop.

Then Tony came and knelt down in front of him, offering two small white pills in the palm of his hand while the other held a cup of water.

“Here, take ‘em. Rogers never really got sick but when he did, these worked for him. And his super soldier metabolism. So, should work for you too.”

Peter swallowed them and washed them down with water. Tony told him, “try and get some sleep, okay” and then left. He sank into the couch cushions, exhaustion overcoming him.

He awoke to something brushing over his skin.

A coarse material but also cool and refreshing as it trails across his forehead and down the side of his face and neck. Peter hums.

“Hey,” someone says, quiet and thick, like they’re underwater. “How are you feeling?”

Peter’s eyelashes slowly flutter open, the world hazy and dark.

“To-ony?” he croaks, throat scratchy.

There’s a pause. Then a sigh. “No, Peter. Tony...Tony’s not here.”

Everything swims blearily into focus and then Peter sees sharp edges and a woman, brown eyes infused with sorry. Her lips are tipped down.

Confusion and panic grip him and he looks around, brows furrowed. Why isn’t he in Tony’s living room?

“Where’s...where’s Tony?” he murmurs. All he sees are concrete walls, a single light bulb, and a large metal door. The panic mounts. His breathing quickens. “Where-where am I? Where’s-where’s Tony? Who are you? What’s going on?”

The woman tries to placate him. “Peter-Peter, you were in a car accident, remember? You were kidnapped, okay? I’m trying to help you.”

His wide eyes, frantic, slip down to his chest which is swathed in bandages tinted red with blood: his blood. He shivers, teeth chattering together. It’s like his skin is ice and it shines like ice too.

“Peter…” the woman tries again, “you need to lie back down, okay?”

He looks at her. Her eyes concerned and pleading with him and she’s biting down on her busted lip, like May does when she’s worried.

May.

“Where’s...where’s May?” he breathes, quietly. “Where is she?”

The woman inhales deeply and then sighs. He catches the shake in her exhale. “I don’t know,” she replies, gentle. “I’m sorry. I really wish I did.”

Defeat, raw, sinks in and Peter is too weak to fight it. He lets it find a home somewhere in his broken spirit and a loose sob escapes him as he lets his head fall back down into the cot. His eye line blurs.

He’s peripherally aware of the woman moving around beside him. She dips a washcloth into a shallow, metal bowl and then wrings it out. Tears slip and trail down his cheeks as she carefully takes his chin and turns his head towards her. His chest spasms with shivers. It feels like a glacier has been shoved under his ribs where his heart should be.

If he feels cold, then the washcloth feels freezing when she presses it against his forehead.

“No,” he whimpers, weakly, and then limply raises a hand to brush it against hers. “Stop. ‘M…’M cold.”

“I know it may not seem like it, but I’m pretty sure you have an infection. You’re burning up on the outside even if you feel cold on the inside. This-” She stretches the damp washcloth between two hands and holds it in front of him. “-will help, okay?”

He doesn’t know why but he just wants to cry his eyes out. He wishes he was strong and brave because he feels the exact opposite right now. Just a small, scared, injured child who can’t help but let the stranger lady help him and run the washcloth over his skin which shines with sweat.

He feels his strength, born of delirium, being sapped and exhaustion trickles in like river water over stones. He blinks at the woman and she tries to cool him down, even though he’s pretty frozen already, limbs frigid.

Then, at some point, it clicks and he remembers.

“Claire…” he whispers.

“Yeah,” she replies, soft. “It’s me. I’m here.” A pause as the cloth trails down his neck. “You remember now?”

“Yeah.” His eyes are distant as he fades back into the memories. “I remember.”

He was in the car, and then they were crashing. And he-he was dragged out and woke up here...with her. With Claire. A nurse who reminds him of May.

May.

“I want…” he smacks his lips: dry and cracked. “I want my aunt.”

“I know,” Claire replies. “I know you do.” She dips the cloth in the bowl, wrings it out. Brushes the coarse material over his head. Damp curls cling to his face as she searches for clarification. “Is her name May?”

Peter nods smally. “Yeah,” he breathes. “You’re...you’re kinda like her.” He tries to smile but he’s afraid it comes out more as a grimace. “You’re...you’re really nice.”

Claire smiles but it’s not genuine, he can tell. Something about the way her teeth don’t show and her lips are pressed together in a line with only a slight curve.

“Try and get some sleep okay?” she says and the words ring in his head.

_“Try and get some sleep okay?”_

Peter lets his eyes close and tries to ignore how he’s trembling all over with shivers. He wants a blanket but more importantly:

“I want Tony,” he whispers as he feels the cloth run down over his exposed arms. He’s drifting, he can tell.

“I know,” Claire says. “I know you do.”

Then he falls into sleep once more.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just to be clear, i suck at writing villains and villain motivations so basically, tl;dr, the villain is crazy. like beck crazy. 
> 
> hope you enjoy!

Josie's Bar is a hole-in-the-wall establishment Tony hasn't been in the likes of since at least the early nineties.

Small, dimly lit. A pool ball table surrounded by burly men clad in leather. Neon signs against exposed brick walls. Eighties rock plays at low level through the overhead speakers.

Tony slowly treads over the hardwood floor, hands in his jacket, eyes scanning the bar area for the man Karen told him would be waiting. The man who knows the vigilante Tony is looking for.

He finds him sitting on a bar stool at the very end, sipping a beer all by his lonesome. He's wearing a suit, not sartorial but not ill fitting either. His tie is loose around his neck and his glasses are tinted red. Tony pushes his own sunglasses up and approaches. He clears his throat to alert his presence.

"Mr. Murdock?"

The man sets his bottle down and turns on the stool. Confusion creases itself between his eyebrows. He's frowning slightly.

Tony tilts his head in curiosity and concern. "Mr. Murdock?" he repeats. "Is everything alright?"

Murdock tense composure melts into something relatively normal. His frown becomes an awkward smile, confusion falling into friendliness. He laughs.

"My apologies, Mr. Stark," Murdock says with a placating hand, "But when my associate spoke to me on the phone, I didn't quite believe her when she told me Iron Man would be meeting me at a bar tonight."

"Well," Tony replies, sitting down with a groan, "I'm not Iron Man tonight," he finishes as a heavy set woman with short curly blonde hair comes over to him from behind the bar.

"And what'll you be having tonight?" she asks, voice thick with gruffness as she wipes clean a glass with a dish rag.

Tony, desperately, craves nothing more than to drink hard liquor, itching for something that'll calm his nerves for a while and stop his trembling hands. But he knows once he starts, it's a long way down the neck of a bottle and he can't do that now, not with Peter Parker God knows where suffering God knows what.

He stifles a sigh, struggling. He knocks on the wood grain of the bar. He wants it, he wants it so bad.

But he wants Peter back safe and sound more than he wants to be an alcoholic again.

The kid dragged him out of a bottle once before, after Siberia. Gave him a reason to quit drinking. And once again, it's Peter to the rescue, even from where it is he's being held.

Tony is supposed to save him. Not the other way around.

He blows out a breath. "Uh, a club soda is fine," he finally edges out.

The lady - Josie, probably, it occurs to him - gives him a questioning stare before she turns away, still wiping the glass clean.

"Never figured you for a club soda type," Murdock remarks, a faint smirk flickering across his face.

"Lots of people never figure for me a lot of things," Tony replies, sharp. He clears his throat, turns to face Murdock, "One of them being someone who needs to find a kid that was taken earlier tonight."

The sarcasm which may have laced Murdock's expression before drops haltingly into a sudden interest and concern. "Yeah, I heard. Who was he?"

Tony bristles at the tense. Aggravation grates at his insides at how a man like Murdock can remain so calm when confronted with something so devastating.

He grits out, "His name _is_ Peter and I expect you or your vigilante friend to help me bring him back tonight, safe and sound. I have a location, now I need your friend as back up and-"

"Wait. Wait," Murdock cuts in with a placating hand. "Where is the location?"

"Esther Lynsdale Housing Project, Morningside Heights."

Murdock tosses his head back, laughs shortly to himself. Then he lowers his head and pinches the bridge of his nose, mumbles something like, "Of course" under his breath. He throws a hand in the air and brings it back down on the bar hard. "Of course," he repeats, louder. He laughs again. "It's so, so obvious."

Murdock is really beginning to test Tony patience, which is already waning thin, and his self-restraint, so he's more than grateful when Josie places a bubbling club soda down in front of him as Murdock continues on, "Why didn't I think of that?"

Tony throws a "thanks" to Josie then asks, "Think of what?" before sipping his beverage.

Murdock comes down from his spell and begins to explain.

"My friend, DareDevil, and I have been tracking this case for weeks. The problem is the kidnappings seemed random in location, there was no single location to tie them together. But now, with your information, maybe there was."

Tony sets his glass down. "What are you talking about?"

"Every child was taken within a twenty mile radius of the Lynsdale housing project. I should've pinned it as the epicenter right at the start, especially given the people that are behind the project."

"What people?"

Murdock tilts his head back and forth, like he's wavering between telling the truth or lying, but eventually he answers, "A man. Business mogul, ties to the Yakuza. He's been nothing short of charitable in recent years with a clean background so I didn't suspect-"

"Well, too late to start suspecting now," Tony snips. "So tell me who he is."

"Marcus Lynsdale," Murdock replies. "He built the housing project for his wife Esther, as a way to remember her. He's been very public about it and his wife and son's death."

Tony stops, ice cascading down over his heart and coating it completely. The mention of the son could be the thread that ties it all together, that determines Peter's fate.

"Son?" Tony echoes, quietly, disbelieving.

"Yeah," Murdock replies. "Son. Both died in the Battle of New York, four years ago."

Tony turns away like the words have burned him and now the ice has given away to intense, fiery self-loathing. Somehow, the blame always comes back to him, always rests squarely on his shoulders no matter the given situation. No matter how many lives he saves, there will always be a Charles Spencer, always be a grieving mother there to slam him against the wall and spit in his face and demand justice.

It's all crystal clear now. It's his fault. He did this to Peter, he shot the tires out of the car and dragged him out of the wreck because it was his name on the tower where the portal opened over it and it's his fault Marcus is out on a revenge mission. And now every drop of blood Peter loses is on his hands too.

Tony looks at them, expecting to see blood there and when he realizes there's not, he presses a palm over his chest to calm his racing heart, electromagnetic pains shooting through his sternum with every pulsing heartbeat. He imaginse his blood beating in his ears when May Parker comes screaming at him, when she realizes too that Tony is solely to blame for the suffering of her nephew.

_"He's dead, and I blame you."_

Murdock throws a rope down the rising well of self loathing and Tony latches on, lets the stranger he barely knows pull him out.

"Mr. Stark? Are you alright?"

Tony allows himself one, shaking exhale before he inhales deeply and turns around, expression schooled into something resembling sanity and not the inverse.

"I'm fine," he replies. "Listen, we need a plan. Clock is ticking, I need to be in the courtyard of the housing project in an hour. Marcus or whichever one of his cronies was clear: no iron suit, no Avengers."

Murdock nods in understanding. "Third option being a vigilante."

 _Unfortunately,_ Tony doesn't say. There's no way in hell he's going it alone, even he's not that stupid. And there's no way they'll him through the door with a single piece of hardware and he's not about to fight his way out bare handed with Peter. So.

And besides, he's not ready to get back in the suit. Not yet.

"Well, someone once told me I always find a way out," Tony says. The admission isn't as acidic as he would've thought it'd taste. Maybe the anonymity helps. "And if this DareDevil is going to be mine, then so be it."

Murdock nods again. He intakes a sharp breath and pads the pockets of his jacket. "Well," he starts, "Like you said clock is ticking. We don't have long."

Tony reaches into the interior pocket of his jacket and pulls out his wallet. He unfolds it and places a hundred dollar bill between his and Murdock's drinks.

"It's on me," Tony adds, "just tell me he'll be there."

They stand from their bar stools. "He will," Murdock assures.

He begins to turn away and walk further into the building when Tony stops him, "Oh, one more thing. Is he any good?"

Murdock turns around and when he smiles, it's assuring and a little confident.

"He's the best in the business."

-

In dreams, Wolf is back and yelling at Claire.

Peter is helpless to watch as their faces become contorted with rage. Wolf is beat red and spitting as he growls while Claire points and shouts just as loud, if not louder. Peter whimpers as they shimmer and blur. He watches Wolf slam the butt of a gun into Claire's cheek and she crumples. Peter cries out in denial and begs Wolf to stop. But his tormentor pays him no mind and leaves with only a cursory glare in his direction and a heavy, angered breath.

The large metal door slams behind him and Peter sees it dissolve into the concrete walls. He hears the argument echoing back in his memory.

_"He is dying and he needs a hospital right now!"_

_"I'm not about to let this kid get in the way of my revenge! If you let him die, then you'll suffer the same way."_

_"I don't have enough medical supplies-"_

_"I don't care! Figure it out!"_

The crack of the gun connecting with Claire's cheek resounds and feverish murmurs spill from Peter's lips. "No, no, no. Stop, no, please, no."

Wolf rounds on him next. Peter doesn't think he's ever seen someone so outraged before. Not Tony, not Ben. Wolf advances. Peter begs and raises a single hand in defense.

"Stop, no! Please, don't!"

"Peter," Wolf says but the voice isn't his. He levels his gun, fury etched into his features, as someone else says through his mouth, "Peter, can you hear me?"

The gun goes off.

Peter screams.

Fire explodes underneath his ribs and then blooms like a mushroom cloud, heat rushing through him. He writhes. Choked off sobs escape him. "No-o," he repeats, begging, delirious. "No-o, please, no."

"Peter, it's okay," someone is saying through the blinding agony. "You're here, it's okay."

There's air trapped in his chest and he can't push it out, can't draw it in. And what happens when fire is fed oxygen?

A fresh wave heat is ignited as the wildfire sweeps through, each nerve alighting with raw pain. He limply prods beneath his ribcage. There's no wetness, no blood. He cries brokenly anyway.

"No, I want...I-I want to go home."

Someone is running their hand over his forehead and through his hair soothingly. "I know," they reply, even. "I know you do. You're gonna go home soon, I promise."

"I...I-I want T-Tony," Peter moans.

"I know. But I can't bring him to you. I'm sorry."

Peter shudders, breath shaking, as he feels the warmth slowly leech away. A damp chill returns and settles in.

"...infection," echoes his mind in Claire's voice. "...burning...outside...cold...inside."

Then he remembers and he pries his eyes open just enough to see.

"Claire?" he croaks.

"I'm here."

She enters his vision. A shadow. No glimmer, no blur. Just soft around the edges. Her cheek is darkening into purple hues and he distantly wonders if his dream was real or not. Must've been, if she's hurt.

"See?" she says, obvious. Her cool hand runs over his forehead and through his sweaty, matted hair. "I'm right here."

Peter wants to speak but the words are stuck so all he does is breath out. In, out. In, out.

"That's it," Claire encourages. "Focus on your breathing. There you go, that's it. You're doing great, okay?"

He just stares, gaze hollow and lifeless.

Claire is frowning, her lips pressed into a line. Why is she so sad? Her eyes are so dark and too distant but they seem to snap back and she forces a smile when she sighs, "Hey, you wanna know something? I think Tony is gonna be here soon."

The disbelief and fever must shock him because it takes him a few seconds before he manages to rasp, "Really?"

She nods. "Yeah. I heard some guys talking about it when they delivered more cold water, bandages. Isn't that great?"

Peter doesn't respond. The idea - Tony, here, soon - is so immensely comforting he feels sweetened by it. But Claire continues as if he had replied anyway.

"Yeah, I know it is. You're so excited, I can tell."

Yeah, he is. He smiles lopsidedly. _Really_ excited.

"So you just hang on, okay?" Claire says, a little insistent. "Just hang on for me."

Peter is drifting again. Her words loop over again, more quiet and tender and he lets them lull him to sleep like a lullaby.

"Just hang on for me."

-

Tony feels exposed.

He's waiting in the courtyard, one hand gripping the opposite wrist to stop his hand from shaking. He's feigning bravado well. Chin high, shoulders squared. Nonchalantly scanning the courtyard when in actuality, he's also searching the rooftops to see if Murdock has kept to his word to ensure backup will be present.

It occurs to him he really is entirely alone. Aside from a possible ally, there's no ex-KGB spies, no archers, none of his usual partners to come to his aid. He's not even entirely sure if he can trust this DareDevil.

But desperation and little to no options are a dangerous mix and hopefully, Peter won't be in the crosshairs of Tony's bad judgment if this all goes south.

He's beginning to bristle and blows out a shaky breath. He pushes the sunglasses further up his nose because, yeah, he still needs some sort of armor. And FRIDAY is still in them. He's kept his gauntlet wrist watch too on the off chance he might need it and the more off chance Lyndale and his goons will let him in the door with it still on.

Which, speak of the devil.

Tony sees a door suddenly blow open from across the courtyard. It slams into the side of the building and a man comes stomping out, shoulders heaving up and down, hunched. He's followed by three other men, seemingly unarmed, but Tony doesn't doubt they're probably carrying concealed weapons.

The man - Marcus, Tony assumes - leading the charge then stands straighter. He adjusts the lapels of his suit and straightens his tie. He smooths down the fabric of his pants and runs a hand through his hair. Once he's finished, he waves a hand to the men to follow him and then starts to approach the courtyard.

Tony tries to think about something quippy, something which will gain him some kind of advantage because Lyndale may have Peter but Tony knows what this is all about. It's about his son, somehow, the dots just need to be connected.

As Lyndale crosses the courtyard, Tony thinks, It's now or never, and clears his throat, pretends he's the same eccentric billionaire everyone believes him to be.

"Ah, Mr. Lyndale," he greets, unsmiling but pleasant. "So you're the man I've heard so much about."

Lyndale chuckles. It grates on Tony's nerves. Then Marcus grins, too sharklike with too gleaming teeth, and Tony has to bite down on his tongue to resist screaming.

"Oh, I've heard so much about you too, Stark," Marcus replies. "Your work on clean energy leaves much to be admired."

"And your work on low income housing projects, as well," Tony responds, curt. A subtle low blow crosses his mind and he takes it. "I'm sure you've afforded many sons the opportunity to live peacefully here."

The corners of Marcus mouth stretch downward and his blue eyes spark with fire. Pride swells and Tony pushes it down. Now is not a time to be overcome by emotion. He can be proud once he gets Peter out alive.

Tony digs in deeper, "And I'm sure many wives and widows are also extremely grateful for your contribution to the city as well."

Fury is overcoming Lyndale now but he's taming it well. He's trembling all over and yet, he's clenching his fists, holding back. He seethes as red creeps into his face. His ear tips are red too.

Tony knows he shouldn't be verbally sparring because Peter's life is hanging in the balance but he needs an advantage. Something, anything.

Marcus turns to one of his men and points a finger at Tony, orders, "Pat him down."

Tony complies, stretches his arms out to the side. The henchman pats down his pant legs, shoes, sides, arms, twists his wrist to reveal the wrist watch. It's not much to look at cosmetically. He can make style and function co-exist most times but the gauntlet wrist watch is the exception.

Marcus is taking no chances, however, and shakes his head. Tony swears in his head as the goon removes it and hands it over to his leader. Then the man points to Tony's sunglasses and once again, Marcus is leaving nothing to chance.

The henchman takes them right off Tony's face and then he feels truly laid bare, like exposed ground cables and everyone can see the frayed wires, the vulnerability. His last pieces of armor gone. All he has now is his hands, his mind and his wit.

And his indomitable will to get Peter Parker back safe.

Marcus takes the belongings. He slips the wrist watch into his pocket and then examines the sunglasses, turns them over in his hands. He shrugs and slips them on and Tony boils, hopes the anger doesn't fracture his facade.

"So," Lyndale begins, business like and calm now. "Let's talk about why I'm here, why you're here and why that kid I got locked up in the basement is here."

Tony files that away - basement, location - as Marcus goes on.

"See, I lost...everything." Sadness shakes his voice. "Now, I don't know if someone like you is familiar with that word, loss, but I am. I lost my wife, my son, my job, all because of the aliens you brought here with your fancy tower and the portal in the sky.

"Now-" He stifles a sigh, breathes out through his nose "-I knew I couldn't get my wife back, my son. But I could make a name and a job for myself. So that's what I did. The Donovan Lynsdale Charity and Esther Lynsdale Housing Project. But you see, that didn't make the pain go away. I thought it would-thought...it'd help somehow.

"So then, I thought to myself. Well, if this won't make the pain go away, then maybe if I can make the world feel what I feel!" he yells, voice pitching up with madness. "Then maybe! I! Won't feel this pain!" He shouts, "It was time for the world to feel how I felt, to make them understand the loss that I understand."

" _Three teenagers have died because of them_ ," echoes a Karen of two hours ago in Tony's head.

"You started taking teenagers," he murmurs under his breath in a hushed, darkly astonished realization.

"Yeah," Marcus admits, unabashed, and Tony wishes he had a hidden recording device on him. "Yeah, I did. But it didn't work, it didn't-it didn't make the pain go away. It didn't satisfy the hunger I had inside me. So then I realized, it's because they didn't cause me the pain. They didn't take my wife, son and job." He steps forward and presses his finger against Tony's sternum, right where the arc reactor was, right where it hurts. "You did."

Tony swallows hard. Pain flares right underneath Marcus fingertip as he hears Ms. Spencer's words again.

_"He's dead and I blame you."_

Their faces are the same, somehow. Grief contorted one into a sad, lonely widow and the other into a raging, vengeful man. It's like seeing similar eyes in different people.  
And, yeah, maybe he regrets the low blow a little bit. Because he does know loss, he knows what it's like to lose family and then feel like losing them all over again when you find out how they really died. He knows what it's like to lose people he thought would stand by him forever. Once it happens, the ground is broken forever. Nothing will even out and no one can stand together in the same way ever again.

But then again, he didn't go around killing others people parents to make them feel what he felt.

He tries to remember it wasn't his fault, even as part of him is ready to accept the accusation, as Marcus continues his monologue.

"So, if I can't have my son, Stark, if I had to watch him die in my arms...then you do too."

-

They shove a bag over his head in the courtyard and then lead him away with a tight grip on his arms lest he try to escape.

He wouldn't. Any other time, maybe.

But they're leading him to Peter so this time, he won't lift a single finger in defense until he has to.

So instead, Tony maps the entire route out in his brain. Counts his steps, counts the turns Presumably, they lead him inside the same building they initially exited from and they go down a flight of stairs. Ten stairs then a landing and a left turn. Ten stairs again then another left turn. What comes next must be a corridor because it's another twenty steps until they come to a stop again.

"We're here," Marcus says and the bag is pulled back from Tony's head.

He feels like he's been thrown back halfway around the world and several years through time. He expects a camera, a blinding light illuminating his cavernous surroundings.

Instead, he's met with a large metal door and a dank smell permeating the air.

Marcus has his back turned while he inserts a key into the door. He turns it and pushes the door in. A shrill squeak is let out followed by a low groaning as the metal moves to reveal the inside of the room.

It's a concrete room with only two inhabitants. One is a deeply tanned woman with dark hair wearing nurses scrubs, who is standing with fists at her sides, body tight.

And then, beside her, he's there.

Tony's heart just about stops in his chest. He can hear his own screams echoing back at him from the past as he imagines this strange woman doing everything in her power to keep the other captive alive.

Peter.

Alive.

He can barely take him in from this distance, and he must stay standing for too long, because then gravity lurches as he's presumably shoved further into the room with a warning from Marcus.

"You have five minutes. I will allow you the mercy I wasn't afforded myself. The luxury of being able to say goodbye to the one you hold dear."

Tony's mind is too wrapped up in seeing the kid, eyes trying to drink in every inch of his physical state, that he doesn't even bother trying to comprehend how Marcus even came to know about their relationship, about how he viewed Peter as his own son.

 _Wait, no. Views. He's not dead yet,_ Tony reminds himself.

Still, he shudders at the warning, at the shrieking and clanking of metal as the door swings closed with a resounding air of finality. His heart stutters, breaths coming short.

The woman is eyeing him warily up and down, like he too may be a veiled threat, and her eyes follow him as he slowly walks over and crouches down beside where Peter is lying.

Tony can see him better now. Can, unfortunately, take in every inch of damage he caused inadvertently because another ghost from the past has come back to haunt him and drag Peter down into hell leaving Tony unscathed.

Hell, Tony thinks, would be a small mercy compared to the torment he faces now as he runs his eyes over the blood tainted bandages stretches across his chest. Peter's cheeks are red and glistening, curls matted to his forehead.

From the outside, he could be in worse shape. But Afghani memories are a prophecy in his mind, telling him the damage is all inside not out.

He hopes against hope that's not the case but he is let down when the woman softly says, "He has an infection."

Tony flicks his eyes up. She is biting her lip - busted - and there is a bruise darkening on her cheek. Her eyes are sorry as she sinks down onto a cot behind her, arms wrapped around her middle.

"The metal," she continues, slow, "from the car accident. I tried to remove as much as I could but I don't have much to work with."

Tony returns his gaze to Peter. His chest rises and falls with each breath and Tony tries to drink in the simple motion and commit it to memory. There's shrapnel somewhere buried underneath all those bandages. For a second, Tony wants to scream at the universe for supplying this twisted cruelty onto a child of all people as some sort of poetic justice for all those years Tony has spent as the Merchant of Death before becoming a protector of life.

He has a fleeting image of Peter with an arc reactor implanted over his sternum and he dispels it immediately. It brings an electromagnetic pulse to his chest and Tony rubs his thumb over where the pain is.

"You did the best you could," he admits quietly. To Yinsen or to her, he doesn't know.

The woman moves in his periphery and sinks down onto her knees opposite him, beside Peter. "I've been trying to keep his fever down," she says, "with a cloth and cold water but I don't think it's working."

Tony nods slowly and reaches his hand to Peter's head. He brushes away the damp curls and rests his palm on his forehead. It's threateningly warm. He cups the side of Peter's face and runs a thumb over the flushed apple of his cheeks. His lips are cracked: dehydration.

He doesn't know if the kid is too far into sleep to hear him but he talks anyways, anxiety and impatience taking root and nearly nauseating him as he waits for back-up to arrive.

"Hey, kid," Tony begins, calm, quiet. "You in there somewhere?"

Peter, of course, doesn't reply but that doesn't stop Tony from carrying on the conversation as if he had.

"Yeah, I bet."

He sighs. His palm is becoming clammy with the warmth emanating from Peter's face. He finds Peter's hand instead and holds it, strong, calloused fingers cradling small, limp ones.

"You know, he was asking for you."

Tony looks up. The woman is staring at Peter with a sad fondness as she goes on.

"He was having these...fever dreams and asking where you were, wanting you here with him." She shifts, shaking her head slowly in a sort of denial. "The look in his eyes when he realized you weren't here..." She smiles sadly and shrugs. "I don't even know how to explain it."

  
Tony can't either but he can explain this, the heart wrenching disappointment, the realization wrapping around his core and squeezing tightly. He's failed Peter too many times already and he's let him down again. Never there when the kid needs him the most. Only after the fact. As an empty suit or a paragon of wisdom.

Never just as Tony. The only person Peter really needs.

His gaze slowly falls away from the woman to Peter, an apology lying on the tip of his tongue. Something like debt weighs down his shoulders. He owes this nurse everything for keeping the kid alive, for being there for him when Tony couldn't be.

Distinctly, he wonders if Rhodey feels the same way about Yinsen.

"What's your name?" he asks.

A beat. "Claire." She hums a quiet laugh to herself. "I guess I can't ask who you are, huh?"

Tony remains silent. Because she does know, or at least she thinks she does. No one really knows who he is until they peel away the armor and then he's as real and vulnerable as everyone else. There are seldom few who bother to know who lies underneath the suit and fewer more who even care who he is behind the designer sunglasses and the luxury cars.

And he knows it sounds selfish, but he's thankful Peter cares about who Tony is. Not who Iron Man is.

"How do you know him?" Claire asks. She slides down from the opposing cot onto her knees. Her hands move to the right as she places something into her lap. There's a sloshing sound: water.

"He's my...intern," Tony supplies stiltedly. "Well, protege, more like."

Claire hums in acknowledgment and wrings out a cloth, water dripping into the bowl. She begins to run it over Peter's forehead, gentle and slow. The kid is unresponsive but Tony isn't.

"May I?" he requests, quiet.

Claire nods and hands over the washcloth. He takes it, palm becoming wet, and hesitantly brushes it over Peter's cheeks. He can't recall the last time he handled such a task with as much gentility as he does now. He's scared he'll break Peter even further but to his surprise and gratitude, the kid doesn't shatter underneath or his fingertips or cry out in agony.

Sometimes though, he does hear Peter in his dreams. Screaming, begging Tony to save him as he struggles from beneath the wreckage of a collapsed warehouse resting upon his shoulders. Or sometimes he burns alive and is engulfed by flames on a beach, carnage and crates resting around them. Tony is helpless to watch and terrified upon waking.

The chipper voicemails offer some relief but it doesn't help ease the guilt of knowing he has stood idly by while Peter has suffered. And even still now, here, it manages to writhe in his stomach, throws ocean tinted words of the past back into his face.

_"If you even cared, you'd actually be here!"_

A choked, wet gasp escapes Tony.

God, he can't do this.

He sniffles, trying to will the tears from falling, but Peter is blurring before his eyes as the apology spills from his lips before he can stop it.

"I'm sorry," he croaks and it feels like when the shield slammed down into his chest, heart cracking. "God, I'm sorry, Pete."

His jaw tenses in a short lived attempt to halt his cries but it doesn't work. This is broken and wrong and he can fix it, he has to fix this, even if Peter can't hear him right now.

"I was never there for you," Tony confesses, throat thick with wetness. "I wasn't there to save you, or take care of you, but I'm here...Peter, I'm here now."

He's more than aware that Claire is watching him like he's an oddity but he doesn't care, he doesn't care, he doesn't care.

A sob escapes him. His chest spasms with uneven breaths as he walks the dangerous line bordering a panic attack. And yet, he soldiers on.

"I swear, I'll do whatever it takes." He sniffs. "I'll be there for you even if it kills me."

And there's the truth isn't it? He'd sell himself out in a single heartbeat if it meant that Peter could live to see the sunrise over a new day.

He squeezes Peter's hand. Not tight enough to cause pain but enough to communicate that he's here. Not Iron Man, him. Not an empty suit, him.

"And no-no more empty suits, okay?" He half laughs, half sobs. "No more."

For a single moment, everything evens out. His breath, the air. Everything is burdened by silence only punctuated by the sound of a muted commotion outside the door. His time dwindling to an end.

He has to fix this.

"You saved me, kid," he murmurs because he's suddenly distrusting of his own voice, a lump curdling in his throat. "Whether you know it or not, you're...you're the hero. I'm sorry I couldn't have been a better one for you.

"But I'll try to be. For you, I'll try to be."

Somewhere past the tears, he's distantly aware the clamor is rising into chaos. There are impacts, blows being landed, outcries of pain. Grunting.

"Stark," Claire warns and she stands, taking a fighter's stance.

Maybe it's stupid, because he's sure of who is outside the door, but he doesn't take action. At least, not at first. He runs the cloth over Peter's forehead one last time and whispers his final words so quietly he almost doesn't hear them himself.

"I promise."

Then, he inhales sharply and stands, preparing for whoever may be standing outside that door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed! be sure to leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed and i'll see you guys next update. bye guys!
> 
> instagram: ironarana  
> wattpad: ironarana


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter, hope you guys enjoy!

The universe, Peter discovers, is liquid and dark, warm and sweet, and vast enough and deep enough for him to swim in.

There are no stars. No pinpricks of light to guide him home, wherever it may be. Has he ever had a home? If he does, then he feels awfully far away from it.

Everything spins around him as he stirs, trying to orient himself in this strange, virgin land. There are no planets, no sun. But somehow, he still feels warm, and safe, the void crawling and cascading over his body, flooding it with comfort. He sighs contentedly, deciding he likes it here. While this place is dark, there is no pain. No ice, no fire.

It’s just him. Alone in the universe. And while he’d normally oppose being left by his lonesome, he doesn’t really mind all that much. And it helps that the void talks to him. Just whispers, echoing around and creating pangs which dissolve into nothingness.

The universe apologizes. “I’m sorry,” it says and he doesn’t know why the apology or where it’s stemming from. “God, I’m sorry, Pete.”

Peter reaches out, tries to feel for the voice of the universe, the deity beyond the darkness. But there’s only nothingness, stretching far and wide with no discernable horizon.

“I was never there for you,” comes the confession from somewhere distant. “I wasn’t there to save you, or take care of you, but I’m here...Peter, I’m here now.”

But the universe is vast and infinite. No beginning and no end. It always has been and always will be. From beginning to end. How could it have never been and simultaneously always been? And how is it here, now, when it has been since before his eyes even caught sight of the night sky in all its glory and wonder?

“I swear I’ll do whatever it takes,” it promises with reverence. “I’ll be there for you even if it kills me.”

 _Until the sun swallows us whole,_ Peter thinks.

But the sun is a star, a large one. He wonders how it would feel, the world ending. Would it end in burning and in flames, or would they simply cease, their souls evaporating and ascending, swirling into stardust and traveling out across the galaxy.

“And no-no more empty suits, okay? No more.”

No more…? Empty suits? What is the void talking about?

It’s the first time a muted yet visceral fear grips him.

The warmth begins to leech away in response, crawling back. The accompanying sweetness dries him out and he wants it back, tries to reach for it, but it slips through his fingers like mist over a moor.

“You saved me, kid,” the void says, loud and booming and so much closer than Peter thought. He shies away but the voice insists, “Whether you know it or not...you’re the hero. I’m sorry I couldn’t have been a better one for you.”

The raw emotion and guilt is palpable and Peter wants to soothe away the redness and the burn in the words. _It’s okay,_ he assures because he can’t seem to speak. _It’s alright._

He’s not quite sure how he saved the universe, how he is somehow the hero, but if the universe ordained it, then who is he to argue with that?

“But I’ll try to be,” continues the voice. “For you, I’ll try to be.”

 _You don’t have to,_ Peter replies, trying to quench the anguish lacing the other’s words.

He begins to come up to himself, senses slowly sharpening, as the stillness which previously overcame him starts to shatter as chaos rises around him.

There is clamouring. It grows louder and bigger, like the sun which will swallow them whole. This is it, Peter thinks and the universe echoes one last sentiment before it comes to an end.

“I promise.”

-

Tony eases himself in front of the door as the banging grows.

He curls his fingers into fists and plants his feet, muscles tensed and yet ready to fight at a moment’s notice, if necessary. Claire remains with Peter behind him as something slams into the metal door, the impact shuddering in the air around them.

“Stark,” Claire repeats, in warning, in questioning.

He has no plan if it’s not who he thinks it is. He can only hope whoever is on the other side is the one who’s come to save them: the third option.

Another bang. Through the resonance, Tony hears moaning from behind.

He spins on a heel to see Peter stirring. His head turns from one side to another, eyes still closed, but there’s a searchingness to the motion. Trying to find something, anything. Something that still matters.

Claire moves to soothe him as another bang penetrates the air and this time, it’s accompanied by the quick and fluid movement of the door blowing open and slamming against the concrete wall.

Tony stands there, speechless, as he runs his eyes over the figure silhouetted by yellow light in the doorway. He’s wearing a deep red suit with a helmet concealing half his face, devils horns sticking out from the top of it. Tony’s gaze shifts to behind him. There are bodies littering the floor and the concrete walls are streaked with blood.

An odd, horrified relief grips him at the brutality. It’s terrifying to see but relieving to know Murdock actually followed through and alerted the vigilante, the man with no fear.

DareDevil.

Tony always thought help in times of desperation came from above. Never occurred to him the best help would come from below.

“About time you showed up,” Tony comments.

“We have to hurry,” DareDevil warns, voice low and gravelly. “One of his men alerted the Yakuza, they’ll be on the doorstep soon.”

Tony nods curtly, moves around to a side of the cot. Claire stands opposite of him with a hand cradling Peter’s face. Her eyes are stern when she sighs, “I don’t think he’ll be able to walk.”

“It’s fine, I can carry him,” Tony insists.

A still mostly unconscious Peter disagrees as his head slowly moves towards Tony’s voice. “I can...I can walk,” he murmurs. “I can walk, Mis’er Stark, I can...I can do it.”

Claire flicks her gaze from Peter to him and shakes her head minutely.

Tony stifles a sigh and presses his lips into a line, torn. He wants to negotiate with a feverish Peter but he knows the latter isn’t quite the best at reasoning right now so he makes an executive decision.

“Sorry, kid. The ‘ayes’ have it.”

Claire lifts Peter’s head off the cot so Tony can slip his arm underneath his neck and she does the same for the crook of Peter’s knees. Tony garners all his strength and lifts the kid out of the cot. He only moans in response.

He almost wishes he had let Peter walk and assisted him in doing so because after only a few seconds, he’s grown unbearably heavy.

But Tony isn’t one to throw in the towel quite so easily.

“Come on,” DareDevil urges and waves a hand towards himself. “We gotta go.”

Claire follows them out into the hallway, where DareDevil stops them with a hand. More men come flooding down into the corridor. Fear spikes in the air. DareDevil gestures to his right and shouts, “Go, go, go! There’s another exit.”

Tony takes off in that direction, running as fast as he can. He tightens his hold on Peter, worried the jostling will exacerbate his wounds and any pain he’s probably - definitely - in. Peter insists with a slurred voice, “I can...I can walk. Lemme...lemme walk I can...do it.”

“I’m not letting you go that easily, Pete,” Tony cuts back, sharp and hasty. “You’re gonna have to trust me here.”

Peter doesn’t reply. Claire points him to the right and he follows her as she runs ahead at breakneck speed. A door grows larger and beside it, a fire extinguisher.

Claire tries the handle but there’s no give. It doesn’t budge.

Frantic, Claire shouts, “It’s locked! What do we do?”

They can’t go back the way they came. Tony can hear grunts and yells coming from that direction. It’s still too dangerous. Claire’s pupils are blown wide with fear, shoulders and chest heaving.

Beside her, he spots the fire extinguisher.

He glances from that to Claire to Peter. A selfish part of him doesn’t want to let Peter go even for one second but the part that sees the bigger picture knows he’ll never get to hold Peter in his arms again if he doesn’t get them all out alive.

So he swallows his selfishness and asks, loud, “Pete? Can you hear me, buddy?”

Peter’s eyes open. Half lidded and barely tracking. His gaze roams all over until it finally centers on Tony’s face when he speaks.

“You there? You hearing me?”

Peter nods slowly. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah I...I hear you.”

“I need you to stand so I can get us out of here. Claire’s gonna help you, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Peter swallows hard and nods again. “Yeah. Yeah, no...no problem.”

Tony glances at Claire who shrugs and then the former begins to set Peter down on his feet.

Claire comes forward and takes one of the kid’s arms, pulling it around her neck. Her other arm wraps around Peter’s middle and underneath his other armpit to help support his weight. Peter leans heavily into her side, head bowed like it’s too heavy to lift. But he’s standing at least and Tony doesn’t take it for granted, immediately moving to the fire extinguisher and tearing it from the wall.

He slams down onto the handle. The metal on metal screeches as he hits it once. Twice. Then, finally, it breaks off and clatters to the floor.

Tony casts the extinguisher aside and hurries back to Claire, who is leaning against the wall to support Peter’s weight.

“I’ll take him,” Tony insists and maneuvers himself into position, Claire transferring Peter to him. “Come on, let’s go.”

Claire moves ahead, towards the door, and opens it. Peter’s feet move sluggishly beneath him as Tony essentially has to drag him to the doorway.

That is, until a gunshot splits the air and they both go down.

Burning pain grazes the side of Tony’s leg. He cries out in surprise and falls, bringing Peter down with him. He turns over on his side to see, at the end of the hallway, Marcus.

His hair is ruffled, blood running down his temple and his suit is bloodied and crinkled. He gives a wide, deranged smile with blood stained teeth. Hanging out of one hand is a gun as he limps forward.

Tony inches backward, eyes flicking to Peter and back before he shouts to Claire, “Get him out!”

“I’m gonna make sure you never see your family again,” Marcus snarls and levels his gun at Tony.

The gun goes off.

And then something strange happens.

It’s so odd and so fast Tony can’t even begin to comprehend how it came to be. The sight exploding into existence, born of nothing.

And then it becomes everything.

-

At the start of the school year, Peter’s English teacher assigned the class to read T.S. Eliot. Now, English wasn’t his strongest suit, mostly because he preferred to read science textbooks and old papers and dissertations written by the smartest people in the world.

Of course, Tony’s papers were a frequented read.

But he had to do it and so, he took to the task of reading _The Hollow Men._ It took him forever, and he got a B plus on the report, which he considered a win.

One line stuck with him ever since he’d read it. He mulled it over quite a bit and even brought it with as a topic for discussion at the lunch table. Ned, over milk cartons, carrots and sandwiches, disagreed with it.

“But don’t you think if the universe started with a bang, it should end with a bang too?”

Peter shrugged. “Maybe T.S. Eliot’s wrong, you know? He wasn’t a scientist.”

Ned wavered his head back and forth, torn between the two sides. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

“Or maybe you’re overlooking something.”

Their heads snapped to the end of their table where Michelle was leering, a book clutched tightly against her chest. “T.S Eliot never said the universe, he said the world,” she corrected. “‘The world ends not with a bang but a whimper.’ You guys got it all wrong...as per usual.”

Confusion pinched Peter’s face together. Not at her correction but more at her last remark. Either way, he didn’t get to counter her argument before she spun away, leaving Ned to mutter, “‘As per usual?’ What is she talking about?”

Peter laughed and then they moved onto something else but, looking back on it now, he realized he was right.

Because first he’s lying down, the world around him tilting and blurry from the impact of the fall, and his eyes drift to see someone approaching him.

Like a predator.

Like a wolf.

His gaze comes back to Tony, who is lying on the floor clutching his leg and behind him, Claire is standing in the doorway, fear tracing her features.

“Whether you know it or not…” echoes a voice in his head, “you’re the hero.”

Wolf levels his gun and Peter doesn’t even think. Some primal instinct takes over and he launches to his feet, throwing himself forward.

The gun goes off.

His body spasms in reaction, mouth agape, confused. His eyes are wide with shock, Tony’s eyes wider.

Lazily, Peter’s clouded stare drifts down to where a hand is pressed against his side. Slowly, he peels his fingers away only to find that they are covered in something wet, warm and slick.

Blood, his addled mind supplies but the how doesn’t connect.

And this is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper.

“Tony…”

Blistering, unquenchable agony grows like a nebula in his side, claiming every inch of his body before he collapses in on itself, the pain swallowing him whole.

-

Tony has never felt rage so raw and unbridled as he did in that moment.

Not even when he found out a trusted friend had been double dealing under the table and selling weapons to terrorists, not even when he found out another trusted friend kept the truth about his parents death and their murderer from him for years. Blindsided and angry were better words.

But this...this is a new entity entirely. Pure and all consuming.

When it connects, when the realization flares in front of his eyes - Peter’s been shot - and he watches the kid crumple to the ground, he shouts in denial.

“NO!”

Claire screams in response and then nobody has time to react any further before DareDevil appears, grips Marcus’ head in both hands and slams it into the concrete wall. He, too, collapses and it looks like justice on the surface but it’s not, it’s really not.

“Peter!” Tony yells and crawls forward. Heat slices through where the first bullet grazed his leg. He gasps.

DareDevil raises a hand. “I got him, Stark,” he replies, even.

Tony wants to fight him on it. A territorial feeling claws around in his gut but he doesn’t have time to act on it because someone else bends down and grabs his arms, pulling it around their shoulders.

“Come on,” Claire urges. “We gotta go, come on.”

He lets her help him stand. It’s easier than he thought. The hard part isn’t that but swallowing down the sight of a vigilante with blood on his suit carrying Peter, who is now bleeding from his abdomen, blood dripping down onto the concrete and leaving a trail in his wake.

It’s absolutely sickening and Tony feels like he’s going to vomit out in his insides right then and there.

Claire motions for DareDevil and Peter to start up the stairwell first. Then her and Tony follow, the latter limping as they hurry upwards as fast as they can.

DareDevil is already bursting through the door and outside by the time Claire and Tony catch up. Red and blue flashing lights spill into the stairwell and Tony’s shoulders sag with relief.

But they’re not out of the woods yet.

The vigilante gently lays Peter’s body down on the ground before running off as police officers shout at him to stop and stand down. Tony is already trembling with wrath from Peter being shot and now he feels like he’s going to combust on the spot and forensics will have to scrape his brains off the pavement.

Fortunately, that doesn’t happen and he’s more than happy to fall to his hands and knees, legs unable to support his weight any longer, as paramedics come swarming around them. They drop down beside Peter’s prone and bleeding body. There’s blood around his lips. A female paramedic begins to shout orders to other medics as they run back to the ambulance and return with a yellow backboard.

Claire gives them the rundown of Peter’s injuries and symptoms. The list is long and extensive, and Tony should be listening, but all he can do is notice how long Peter’s eyelashes are and how softly they lay against his cheeks. There are the lightest of freckles over his nose and cheeks and little imperfections and divots lining his face. Acne scars. There’s an unhealthy, deathly pallor to his face and all Tony can think about is how so unbelievably young the kid looks.

“Peter…” he whispers, breath tickling the air.

“Mr. Stark?” someone says. “You need to come with me, I need to get you checked out.”

Whoever is speaking pulls Tony to his feet. He watches helplessly as Peter is transferred onto a backboard and lifted by a group of paramedics. They begin to walk away without him.

“I need to be with him,” Tony manages, lamely. “I need to-I need to stay with him. I promised.”

“Mr. Stark,” the paramedic - male - tries, “He’s gonna be fine, I really must insist that you come with me.”

Tony shakes his head. “No. No I-I promised, I need to go with him, I promised!”

He tries to step forward but the paramedic stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Mr. Stark, we’re gonna take you to the same hospital, okay? You’re gonna be there with him but I need to make sure you’re alright first. Once you’re checked over, then you can go and you can undergo a more extensive check up later, okay?”

The medic is trying to play nice, trying to negotiate, but it’s not enough to convince him to stay.

What is enough is Claire.

“I’ll go with him,” she states, firm, bravery squaring her shoulders. She looks him dead in the eye and asks, “Do you trust me?”

No is reflexive and on his tongue but something inside is pulling him towards a different answer. She has kept him alive, assured him, bandaged his wounds. She wouldn’t have done all of that only to throw her care and compassion down the drain if she wasn’t someone worth trusting.

Tony exhales.

“Yes.”

-

Once Claire leaves in the ambulance, Tony is sat down in a different one. He watches the procession play out in front of him: police men flooding the building and returning with multiple henchmen in handcuffs. Forensics arrive on scene as well and enter the building once it’s been deemed clear.

Tony’s gaze follows a particularly bloodied, broken Marcus as he's marched in handcuffs across the pavement. Marcus glares in return before he is shoved into the back of a squad car.

The police linger as two paramedics, male and female, check Tony over. One cleans the flesh wound, stitches and bandages it. Another shines a flashlight in his eyes and checks his pupil dilation, measures his heart rate and blood pressure.

“Your blood pressure is a little high,” the woman announces after removing the cuff and draping her stethoscope around her shoulders. “But other than that, I’m sure you’ll be flying high in the sky again soon, Mr. Stark.” She smiles in admiration.

Tony forces his own smile in return and replies with a “Thank you” as he takes notice of someone new approaching him. A sergeant, judging from the suit and badge displayed on his waistband beside his sidearm.

“Hell of a mess you made tonight, Stark,” Mahoney declares. “Gonna be scrubbing blood off the walls for weeks.”

“I didn’t do it,” Tony states, flat.

“I never said you did. But-” He scoffs, shakes his head in disbelief “-can’t believe you managed to get help from the one guy I’ve been trying to cooperate with for years.”

“Thought cops didn’t operate outside the law.”

“We don’t. But some of us see the larger picture. See the greater good beyond the limitations we’re bound to by oath. And...he’s not exactly a team player.”

Tony feels that, sees an agent of the past echo the very same about him.

“Listen, I gotta handle clean up here,” Mahoney continues. “I’m gonna drag Mr. Lyndale back to the station and I’ll let you know the interrogation goes.” He wags a finger. “You, however, will be expected to issue your own statement at a later date. For now, I think you got a hospital to get to if I heard correctly.”

Tony nods and stands, ignoring the heat racing up his leg and the stiff pressure from the bandages wrapped tightly around the flesh wound. He stretches out a hand. “Thank you, Sergeant. For everything.”

Mahoney grips his hand firmly. “Thank me when the kid comes out of surgery alive.”

Tony appreciates the optimism even though it creates an itchy feeling of unknowingness under his skin. He hasn’t heard anything from anyone on if Peter even made it there alive. If he’s even in surgery yet. While normally, he would probe the unknown with curiosity and wonder, he’s rather hesitant, afraid he won’t like the truth of what he’ll find.

Mahoney leaves him and an officer comes forward. Reagan, from the crash site. He offers to escort Tony to the hospital and the latter agrees mutedly with only a nod to inform the officer of his consent.

He follows Reagan to a squad car and rides in the backseat. It smells a little like piss, mint and evergreen air freshener. It’s nauseating and Tony’s stomach lurches when Reagan takes off at breakneck speed, lights flashing and sirens screaming.

As they fly through traffic, Tony tries not to think about the worst. That’s not a place he wants to go and yet, he still stands on the hazy edges of thoughts about it. A heart rate monitor flat lining, a doctor calling it.

Shivers cascade down his spine. He rolls his shoulders to alleviate them.

By the time they arrive and Tony limps through the doors of the emergency room, Claire is nowhere to be found. Instead, Happy and May are already waiting and they both stand when they see him enter. May hurries over with tear filled eyes and flings her arms around Tony’s neck. Her breath is warm and shaky against his neck as Tony hesitantly returns the hug, arms wrapping around her waist.

“They told me,” she says, voice wet and fractured. “The Sergeant called and told me as soon as they found him.”

He sees it again, the image. It’ll be painted on the back of his eyelids forever, haunt him to his grave. Peter, standing over him. The confusion and paleness in his face as he slowly peeled away his hand to find it wet and red, as he discovered a hole in his abdomen.

He tightens his arms around May, trying to dispel the image and she returns his hug with the same fierceness, with a mutual love for someone they both care about, who is lying on an operating table somewhere here, his life hanging in the balance.

“Is he gonna be okay?” she whispers.

Tony squeezes his eyes shut and tries to push away the worst, the unimaginable. He wants to say yes, he wants to say Peter will live, but even he doesn’t have the kind of power. And he doesn’t want to give her false hope. Sometimes it’s worse than the actual thing.

May pulls away. His hold loosens until his arms fall to his sides as she stares with a wide eyed desperation, searching for an answer. A reassurance.

Tony can’t give it, he can’t do that to her. His lips part but no words come. He stifles a sigh as his downcast eyes fill with an ocean of guilt, churning like a storm, tossing him like a ship at sea.

He can’t look at her. But when he finally does, she seems to understand. She inhales sharply through her nose and squares her shoulders in an almost defiance, nodding her head over to where she was sitting.

Tony limps forward, only throwing his gaze back to Officer Reagan, who tips his hat in farewell before leaving the entryway disappearing into the night.

The floors of the hospital, in all their pristineness, become tainted with scuff marks as Tony drags himself over to the carpeted waiting area where May has taken her seat and Happy is standing in wait.

“Hey there,” Happy greets, voice low. He gives a brief hug with an accompanying pat on the back and then steps away. Tony can see a flash of that same desperation he saw in May’s eyes ring around Happy’s eyes irises before vanishing in silent understanding. There are some questions which aren’t meant to be asked, at least not yet, so instead he asks a different one. “You alright?”

 _No,_ he thinks but his body betrays him as he nods mutely in response.

Tony sinks into the empty chair beside May, who has her hands folded. Whether in prayer or not, he doesn’t know. If there is a god, Tony has the feeling he doesn’t very much care for the likes of him or his problems. As evidenced by, well...his entire life.

But this isn’t about him.

And sure, he doesn’t know if it will help. If it will help Peter’s chances. But he’s willing, and it doesn’t hurt to try.

He mimics May’s stance. Eyes closed, hands folded. When he was younger, Jarvis and Anna took him to church on Sunday on the days when Howard was too drunk and deadly to be around. They would sit on the hard, uncomfortable pews and sing hymns with the congregation. They would pray.

He was never taught properly how to so instead he begs, hoping it will suffice, hopes it's close enough to be effective.

 _Please save him,_ he thinks, with fervor.

_Please save his life._

-

Claire appears in the waiting room three hours later.

In the time that’s passed, Pepper has called, asking about everything that’s happened. She heard on the news and was a little saddened Tony hadn’t told her. But in his defense, everything happened so quickly there wasn’t really time.

May has fallen asleep with her head resting against Happy shoulder and the latter resting his head on top of May’s. Tony has been filled with too much anxious energy to anything beyond bouncing his uninjured leg up and down and disinterestedly watch a period drama on the box television mounted in the corner in between nagging the receptionist for any updates.

He’s sure she’s grown sick of him by now, which is fair. It seems to happen pretty quick.

So when Claire comes out from behind a pair of double doors, Tony gently rouses May by saying her name and shaking her shoulder. She stirs awake, disoriented for a moment, before she stands. Happy snorts and jolts to reality, doing a quick scan of the room before he too joins May and Tony in a standing position.

Though it may seem like it, he’s not ready to take it. The truth. He’s never thought he’d resort to begging but his eyes plead with her, with any deity above who will listen.

_Please, please, please._

The tension in the room is thick and palpable as Claire glances between all of them. They’re a motley crew, to be sure, but she’s not judgmental. Her shoulders rise and fall upon her inhale and exhale. Tony swears the air leaves the room for a second as her lips part.

And then: “He’s gonna be okay.”

_Oh, thank God._

His entire system floods with relief. He breathes out, bending over at the waist like he’s just sprinted a marathon and he’s gasping for oxygen.

“The bullet went straight through,” Claire continues, “and they were able to remove the leftover shrapnel in his chest. Set a few broken ribs, took care of his concussion. He’s on anti-fever meds, an IV line and they gave him a blood transfusion. He’ll be fine.”

May lets out a sob in response. Tony rights himself as May rushes forward and envelopes Claire in a hug. She is off kilter, for a moment, before she slowly wraps her arms around May, who is crying in gratitude, “Thank you. Thank you for saving my baby.”

Claire nods into her shoulder. When May relinquishes her hold, Claire says, “He’s in a recovery room if you want to see him.” She jabs a thumb behind her to a pair of double doors. “Down the hall, second door on the left.”

May glances back at Happy and Tony before she takes off towards the double doors with haste. Happy follows her. While Tony’s heart is tugging in the direction they left and his feet begin to move, Claire stops him with a, “Wait.”

So he does. He gives her a wary stare, unsure of what’s coming next, some undelivered final blow, something she didn’t tell the other two.

“I have to go,” she says. “But I just wanted to say...you’re not who I thought you were.”

Tony doesn’t quite know how to react to that. It’s nice of her to say, and nice for him to know. Something odd like gratitude begins to swell at her words but he pushes it back down quickly. Flipping someone’s expectations of him on a head isn’t what's important here and now. Thought it might’ve been...before.

So he settles for a nod and a small smile, which he fears comes off as more of a grimace than anything else. But there’s still something missing. A debt he knows he’ll never be able to repay with any dollar amount at his disposal but that doesn’t mean he won’t try.

Instead, he starts with a murmur because he’s distrusting of his own voice. “Thank you. For saving his life.”

Claire dismisses his thanks with a modest wave of her hand. “It’s nothing, really. I’m just glad he’s gonna be okay.”

She gives him one last look, bridled with genuine sincerity and concern, and she squeezes his upper arm in reassurance before she turns away, dark hair flouncing over her shoulder.

Tony’s gaze follows her retreating back until her blue scrubs disappear through the sliding doors and into the parking lot which is lightly cast in a glow from the street lights. He hopes she knows. His thanks feels so woefully inadequate compared to the building mountain of gratitude inside himself. He could devote years of his life to the task and yet still fall short of truly expressing how grateful he is that this woman, a complete stranger to him, kept alive one of the most important people in his entire life.

He feels so small. In that moment. Shrunken in. The universe bearing down on his shoulders and he wishes it would lift, for just a moment, so he could breathe.

But there’s someone waiting for him. Someone who called his name and waited for him to come to the rescue and Tony will be damned if he starts breaking his promise while the kid is lying unconscious in a hospital bed.

No more empty suits.

He promised.

So, he draws in a long, deep breath and then turns to the double doors, unprepared for the great unknown and yet, stepping out into it all the same.

-

Peter is lying in the hospital bed with an oxygen mask over his face and a tube connected to it.

The clear tube snakes down to an oxygen machine humming lowly beside him. There’s also fluids hung in bags on a pole: blood, morphine and saline. Tony follows those tubes to where they are taped on the back of Peter’s hand, one in the crook of his elbow. His skin is still waxy and pale. But there’s a small comfort to be found in the pinkness returning to his cheeks, where May brushes a thumb gently over his apples.

Her other hand is holding the one of Peter’s which isn’t taped and tubed. The only thing on it is clipped onto his index finger to monitor his heart rate, which is going steady judging from the beeping and blips on the screen Tony watches.

He tries to draw comfort from the rhythm which assures him pulse by pulse that Peter is alive.

Bruised. Battered. But alive.

It manages to feel like a hollow victory anyways.

Tony leans against the doorway, hesitant to venture any further in and break the moment May is having with her nephew. Someone who actually knows him. Not just someone who swoops in and saves the day at the last moment, bringing backup along with him.

But May sees him. And he’s surprised that there’s no disdain written in her face, no venom lacing her invitation.

“Come here. Come sit down.”

Tony is prepared to lie, to form an excuse, because truthfully, he’s not good at this. It’s easier, in a life and death situation, when there’s something to lose. But, now he’s safe and there’s nothing to lose and somehow, that seems even more dangerous.

It’s just...terrifying.

May seems to sense his fears, the hesitation, because her following words are soft spoken and yet, insistent and firm all the same.

“He needs you too.”

Something like a wet lump curdles in his throat and he knows if he speaks, he’ll start crying. So he says nothing and wanders across the pristine tile, settling into a chair opposite May and besides Peter, whose chest is swathed in bandages. It rises and falls with each breath. A weight lifts a little off his shoulders.

He did one thing right.

And if this is the only thing he ever does right, then so be it.

“I know,” May begins, suddenly, startling him from his thoughts, “it’s been hard for him. These last few months. He doesn’t always do everything right, the way you want him to, but he’s been trying.” She’s smiling down on Peter with fondness, blinking tears away. “And he’s said it’s been hard for you too. Didn’t say how. Just that you were really shaken after that fight in Germany.”

Tony frowns, looking down at the blanket pulled up over Peter’s abdomen, where he knows sits a gaping hole, stitched and patched over. He doesn’t want to confirm what she’s saying is true or correct her. The shakenness didn’t come from Germany. But she continues on anyways.

“And, you know, I was really angry. When I found out. I always said you were danger just waiting to happen. But he looks up to you. Cares about you. I wasn’t going to take that away from him not after...everything we’ve been through together.”

She’s right. Somewhere deep down, he knows she’s right. Trouble follows wherever he goes. Just look at the last time someone followed him into battle: paralyzed from the waist down, can barely walk without braces to assist him.

It’s why he’s hid behind empty suits and missed phone calls for so long. Afraid to ruin something as good and perfect as Peter Parker. Hands off was better than hands on his mind.

But that’s now always the case. Hands off for too long and look what happened. Captured, maybe even tortured, and shot in the gut.

Tony’s own stomach clenches at the callousness of the thought.

“But I was wrong,” May admits, prompting Tony to look up. “You saved him. I’m sorry I thought any less of you.”

She wouldn’t be saying that, Tony thinks, if she knew who Peter’s captor was. Knew the motivation behind his actions.

Maybe it’s stupid to think so lowly of her and to think she would hate him if she knew the full story behind what happened. But selfishly, he wants to hold onto her praise. So many bad things have happened and he just-he needs good things.

And maybe, just maybe, he’s not as bad as he thinks he is.

So he accepts her apology with a small, “It’s okay” as his eyes drift back to Peter. Dark lashes resting under his eyes.

Slowly, with trembling fingers, Tony reaches out across the mattress for Peter’s hand. The one which is taped and tubed, feeding him fluids to keep him alive. He takes it gently, like Peter’s bones are made of porcelain, and cradles it, willing his own warmth into the kid’s cold fingers.

It’s going to be a long night.

-

_“Is he gonna be alright?”_

Sometime later, when the sun is beginning to crest and morning light spills over the city, Pepper calls him. He steps outside into the hallway where two armed guards bearing Stark Industries badges stand watch over Peter. Happy called them in earlier when Tony first entered the kid’s room. Smart move.

“Yeah, he’ll be fine,” Tony replies. “He’s...pretty banged up but he’s got his aunt, Happy, me. In fact, Hap just took her home to pack an overnight bag. Fresh clothes, toiletries. She needs a shower.”

 _“I see,”_ Pepper says. _“And just so you know, our shareholders in Japan aren’t so happy you had to leave the meeting early in order to get to the kid. In only two hours too.”_

“Is that surprise I hear in your voice?”

Pepper laughs lightly. _“Pride. They’re still upset, even after I explained to them in broken Japanese everything that happened.”_

“How cultured of you.” Tony sighs. “Well, just flash ‘em a smile for now, and I’ll fly out there soon with a very nice olive branch. Just...not now. Not with...you know.”

The events of last night are still sensitive and raw around the edges. Saying it just makes it more real. He wants to pretend it was all just a bad dream as long as he can.

Pepper sees through that, understands. _“I know. Tell everyone I said hi. I love you.”_

“Love you more,” Tony replies and hangs up, turning back into Peter’s hospital room.

A nurse, not Claire but just as nice, has been checking in on him periodically throughout the night. According to her, he’s breathing easier. He should be off the oxygen mask and on a cannula soon. He’s peaceful. Settled.

Tony isn’t. While May fell asleep hunched over in her chair, hand still clutching Peter’s, Tony has barely slept. He’s been on alert the entire night even after the guards arrived, nerves strung too high and mind too riled up. The coffee didn’t help. Tasted like paint and plaster but he drank it anyways. It’s not what he wanted to drink and not as strong but he wasn’t about to start crawling down the neck of a bottle with Peter still unconscious.

He wasn’t gonna do that. He promised he’d try to be better. Better started then and continues now.

Tony takes Peter’s hand. Warmth has steadily begun to return. He’s recovering. Tony is grateful. He hasn’t spoken to Claire since last night and he hopes she’ll come back, hopes he can get her full name and make a large, anonymous deposit later.

Besides that, he’s sure she’d want to know Peter is okay. That he’s _going_ to be okay.

Tony strictly forbids any other alternative.

He’s not sure how much time passes between sitting down and the changing of the SI security guards. Just knows May and Happy haven’t returned yet when Peter slowly begins to stir. His brows draw together. His lashes flutter open. Light and gentle, like a butterfly’s wings beating.

Tony holds his breath, watching Peter arise out of sleep. It’s like a miracle being performed before his very eyes and he is speechless to watch, enraptured in awe and wonder.

“Peter?” he asks, gentle. Hesitant. As if everything might just disappear with a single sound.

The kid’s head, wrapped tightly in bandages, lulls to the side. His vision is a little hazy and unfocused but when he sees Tony, a small smile twitches underneath the oxygen mask. His eyes soften.

It’s a start.

-

Peter fades in out of sleep.

He misses pieces of time and tries to string together what happens. Tony is there one second and then he is not. Peter sees sheets of white pass over him, a subtle rattling by his ears and the nauseating feeling of motion. Then May is somewhere, crying and kissing his knuckles. He squeezes her hand back as tightly as he can manage, trying to reassure her he’s okay.

His mind is still addled, the prior night’s events not quite coming back to him. There’s rays of light, shining through a window beside him. The sky outside changes to hues of pink, orange and yellow. Then it transforms into another being entirely. Navy and blue and purple but still just as beautiful, although in a different way.

More time passes and he wakes again. May is gone. Tony is sitting in a chair by the heart rate monitor, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, tablet nestled in his lap. The blue light illuminates hollows in his cheeks, his collarbone. There’s dark bags underneath his eyes. The sight pinches something between Peter’s ribcage but it’s a dull sensation. Everything is dull and hazy, swathed in something cozy like pain medication.

“Tony,” he rasps.

Tony startles. Peter flinches. The former sighs and removes his glasses, folding them away into the breast pocket of his shirt. “Thought you were sleeping,” he replies, turning off the tablet.

The blue light goes away. All that’s left is the yellow glow of the lamp behind them, the beeping of the heart rate monitor, the low humming of the other machines.

“Was,” Peter slurs, trying to quip. “Sleep is for the weak.”

Tony hums. “Glad to see you’re in a good mood.”

A faint smile flickers over Peter’s face. He’s not necessarily in the best mood persay. It feels like his veins have been flooded with lead, heaviness weighing down his bones. But he doesn’t like the bags underneath his mentor’s eyes, the underlying hauntedness gracing his features.

So he’ll pretend. If it makes Tony feel better.

“Maybe it’s just the...pain meds,” Peter replies.

Tony nods in agreement. “I bet.”

It must be them because he falls under again and when he wakes, it’s morning. Or, almost. Orange is fending off black in the sky through the window. Tony is still awake and Peter distantly wonders if he slept at all.

He himself feels better though. Less weighty, a little more free. More than likely, they’re trying to slowly wean him off the pain medication which is good. Michelle told him once people can get addicted to the stuff.

“Hey,” Peter says, low, trying not to startle Tony like last time.

Tony glances up from his tablet and turns it off, slides it away onto the side table. “Hey, yourself. How’s the Boy Wonder?”

Peter shrugs. “Could be much worse.”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees. “You’ve seen better days, that’s for sure.”

Peter breathes a laugh through his nose, dips his head down in a show of sudden shyness. The memories are there, right underneath the surface, brimming with life and clarity. Wolf. Claire. A world of pain. A gun being fired. Tony yelling.

There’s been better days. That’s for sure.

“I remember what happened,” he murmurs, under his breath. The ghost of fire flares in his stomach right where...right where he was...yeah. He inhales shakily. “I remember you. You were calling my name right before I...passed out.”

Tony says nothing. The silence is near suffocating. Peter rambles stiltedly to alleviate it.

“And someone was...talking to me, telling me things like how I saved them and no-no more empty suits and how I’m the-the hero.” He shrugs, almost embarrassed. He could’ve been hallucinating for all he knows. “Maybe they were wrong, I don’t know.”

“No.”

The word is so surprisingly firm Peter looks up wide eyed to Tony, whose face is etched with determination. His eyes are gentle, although they don’t meet Peter’s. His voice is unwavering.

“They weren’t...wrong. They knew exactly what they were saying. And they were right.”

The realization is stunted by the remnants of pain drugs, reaction time slowed. It takes a minute for his mind to catch up. When he does, the reality of who was saying those things sinks in.

_“You saved me, kid. Whether you know it or not, you’re...you’re the hero. I’m sorry I couldn’t have been a better one for you.”_

The air is sober between them. There’s so much pain ringed around Tony’s irises. Pain and sadness, contriteness washing out the rest of his face. Peter wants to soothe it all the way, the same he wanted to do it the first time he heard those words.

Except, he just didn’t know who was talking then.

“You saved me too,” Peter says, swallowing thickly. “Maybe that’s what we do. We save each other.”

Their eyes lock then. Something passes between them, settling. Understanding. They’re in it for the long haul, the both of them. And May since once you’re in it for the long haul, you’re in it for life.

“Maybe you’re right,” Tony replies.

“And you don’t-” he shakes his head, denying his mentor’s earlier words “-you don’t have to try and be better. I-I like you just the way you are, Mr. Stark.”

A smile graces Tony’s lips. There are tears forming but not sad ones, Peter thinks. Happy.

It’s hard to be happy sometimes. He should know. It’s nice to see Tony fighting for it.

“Well,” Tony says. “There’s always room for improvement.”

Peter grins. The sun rises. It’s not perfect. Everything is still a little fractured around the edges. It’s never as simple and easy as being stitched up and sent on your merry way.

But it’s better. They’re trying.

And that’s all that really matters, Peter thinks.

Isn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you guys enjoyed this story, i had a ton of fun writing it and i'm looking forward to posting more stories in the future when i can. leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed and i'll talk to you later. lots of love!
> 
> instagram: ironarana  
> wattpad: ironarana

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you guys enjoyed! be sure to leave a comment or a kudos if you did and also, i plan on posting the next chapter tomorrow if i can. 
> 
> bye guys!
> 
> instagram: ironarana  
> wattpad: ironarana


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